


The Duel

by errantknightess



Category: Lord of the Dance
Genre: M/M, Slash, dance, fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantknightess/pseuds/errantknightess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The villain's reflections on the fine line between a fight and a dance, hatred and passion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Duel

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that the text revolves around the characters, not the real-life dancers.

Throbbing sounds of war drums intrude your ears, flow through your body, thud inside your chest. They fill you to the brim, to the point when you can feel your heartbeat synchronize with their violent pace. Or is that because of him, standing silent right in front of you, his back drawn up haughtily, but his feet twitching, ready to start up any moment?

 

He can’t be much younger than you, it crosses your mind as you both start going round, round and round, each other’s watchful eyes fixed on his counterpart. Slowly revolving around an invisible axis, you know there is no escape from its orbit now. Face to face, step by step, you swap places, always at the exact opposite of each other. There is no saying who is chasing and who retreating. A perfect balance. You almost regret to break it.

 

Your first move is mindful, stealthy; but he answers rapidly (nervous? furious? eager?) and you have no choice but to burst into motion after him. It’s vexing that he's the one to impose the pace, but there’s just a spark of an intrigued approbation in your eye as you accept the challenge, your muscles strained and soldierly obedient. He skips vigorously, his legs sporting a taunt with every spring, and once again, his youthfulness strikes you.

 

If it wasn’t here and now, you would play it with less haste; just to check if his upper lip curls up the same way when he laughs as it does now, while he’s grinding his teeth in fierce concentration; just to hear his quick breath evened out and relaxed; to see his strong, restless calves lying still by your side. You would gladly take your time to let him give in bit by bit.  
(Sometimes it’s better to conquer by diplomacy, not by force.)

 

But it  _is_  here and now, and the world is stirring, whirling, pulsating with hollow beats. Tense and self-disciplined, you are all eyes, voraciously following his every move, desperate not to fall out of rhythm. You’re trying to draw closer, but he keeps leaning back (frightened? mocking? synchronized?), leaving you in the very place he stood just a blink ago, and moving on to the spot you reached from.

 

And he is putting on a spurt. It’s annoying how he jumps all around you so softly, as though it was a  _siamsa_. Your heels kick the ground viciously like daggers in a long-mastered sequence, struggling to take a perfect step every time, while he seems to move spontaneously and without effort, his soles kissing the ground passionately. You speed up, rage urging your muscles to keep the pace; you hate to see him so light and free, you can’t stand him so careless and boundless. You must daunt this restless spirit.  
(It’s a matter of principle.)

 

Suddenly, he moves toward you (mistake? attack? surrender?) and you have him cornered; chest to chest, you can feel his heart pumping blood heated with exertion. Just for a blink of the eye (if you could afford it), your hearts beat in unison, and it’s almost like you conquered him, until he sinks to his knees.  
(He’d rather die than conform to your rhythm.)

 

For one brief moment in the suddlenly pervading silence, when he lies crouching at your weary feet, you’re overtaken by the sense of loss. But there’s also so much to be gained now… You reach and unbuckle his belt; your hand trembles with hesitation, moves back reluctantly. If only it wasn't here and now... But it  _is_  here and now, and now you're here for the belt. As you shove it to his flushed face, you’re filled with relief that your own is concealed behind the mask when your eyes meet the coals burning under his frowning eyebrows. He's impaling you with fiery sight from the ground: defeated, but not broken.

The belt is still radiating with warmth of his body as you wrap it around your waist. Here and now, you are the new Lord; but your subject is reigning all over you.


End file.
